


A Good Afterlife

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afterlife, Constructed Reality, Cultural Differences, Cultural exchange, Gen, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5543699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"While Iskandar finds it easy to cast off his home culture and swap it for another when he wishes, he finds it amusing to watch Waver slowly discover this trick for himself." </p>
<p>Snapshots of Waver's life among the Ionian Hetairoi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> While Fate/Grand Order may say Waver doesn't have enough exploits/legends to his name to become part of the Throne of Heroes, "I reject this idea and substitute my own", to paraphrase Adam Savage. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero.

While Iskandar finds it easy to cast off his home culture and swap it for another when he wishes, he finds it amusing to watch Waver slowly discover this trick for himself. 

At first, Waver clings to his Englishness even in death. What will he be drinking? Tea. What will he be reading in the traveling library? Shakespeare. Not that those things are _bad_ , of course (Iskandar quite likes the Bard’s many wartime speeches and bawdy humor), but they do clash with the Ionian Hetairoi. The worst it gets is a few playful ribbings, and by this point Waver gives as good as he gets.

“Tea _again_ , boy? Why take all that time for leaves in water?” Iskandar peers into Waver’s steaming cup. “Unless you’re planning to learn your fortune…unreliably.”

“And this is this different from mulled wine _how_?” Waver asks, the steam whirling as he sighs. “Tea takes less time, and it doesn’t make you puke in the morning if you overdo it.”

“Ha! I see. Managed a few drunken outings in life, did you?”

Waver makes a face. “Uh-huh. That’s why I took up cigars and tea later in life. If I’m going to have a vice, I might as well choose the one that doesn’t make me stupid.”

Iskandar chuckles. “Others would disagree—but whatever. Your obsession with bitter things is at least interesting!”

Waver snorts and takes a languid sip, resting his bony shoulder against Iskandar’s arm like it’s nothing.

\---

While the cigars and tea never change, Waver’s clothing does. After Waver’s fashionable suit gets _too_ much sand in uncomfortable places, he discovers how useful togas and leather sandals are for desert travels. Waver has several pairs of each made, fabrics of red, gold, green and white, soft and cool to the touch. He looks increasingly comfortable walking around among the rest of the army, his raspy laughter audible amidst a gust of amusement. His suit is too much _him_ to let go of—and Iskandar wouldn’t dream of forcing Waver to part with it—and he alternates between them as weather dictates.

\---

Of more interest to Iskandar is Waver’s budding friendship with the resident philosophers. It’s unsurprising, of course, given who he was in life, but the nostalgic _fascination_ he exudes when he sits beside Ptolemy and Calanus and listens to their debates is quite entertaining. He sits there for hours at a time, occasionally asking questions and debating the answers. He’s yet to bring himself to add his own opinion when it comes to the philosophers’ friendly arguments. It gets to the point where Waver has his own green cushion waiting for him. (Iskandar knows this because Waver came to his tent that day glowing with humble happiness.)

One morning, as the sun rises in warm pink and yellow over Iskandar’s Desert, Waver comes to the philosophers’ tent with a troubled expression. Iskandar—having chosen to make merry with the intellectuals this morning—pats the empty cushion, suspecting that this is going to be interesting.

“What’s the matter, boy? You seem glum.”

 Waver sits down, eyes flicking from Iskandar to Calanus to Ptolemy. “…Well…it’s a question I’ve thought about for a long time, since I became El-Melloi II.”

Calanus blinks slowly, having just finished meditating. He lowers his dark, muscled arms and lets them hang loose at his sides. “A question that has burdened you for so long should be put to rest. Ask, and we shall talk it over.”

Ptolemy smiles and hands Waver a cup of freshly-brewed tea. “I suspect you’ll need this.”

Waver chuckles wryly and nods in thanks. The steam floats around his face, shading him in gray. “If a person…”

Iskandar watches Waver’s jaw twitch and gives him a subtle nod of reassurance. That seems to do the trick; he lets out a long sigh and continues.

“…If a person in the lower classes is unhappy in his social place, should he try to rise higher in the ranks, or seek happiness where he is?”

The question hangs in the air for a long moment. Outside, someone is playing a lyre, and a pipe has joined in. The sounds turn from awkward dissonance to a cheery dance.

Calanus sips his tea, then speaks. “That depends on why the person is unhappy. Do they wish for power, a full belly, or the love of one in a higher station? These desires are understandable…but they may not be necessary to live ‘a good life’.”

Waver frowns. “What _is_ ‘a good life’, then?”

Calanus smiles wryly. “Entirely up to you. I say a good life is one of mindfulness and avoiding earthly pleasures. Our King”—he inclines his head politely to Iskandar—“believes that a life chasing an impossible dream with beloved friends is the only life worth living. There are many options.”

Iskandar chuckles. “Whoa, now. I don’t think it’s the _only_ option.”

Calanus raises an eyebrow. “Then why were you so insistent on my joining you?”

“Because you were fun and had no trouble putting me in my place!”

Ptolemy clears his throat. “Back to the topic at hand. If this person wanted to be respected—that is, to be around people who appreciate his talents, words and so on, and who enjoy his company…that may well require moving from one social rung to another. But it might not; sometimes all one needs is a single person who understands him in order to be content. Or they may prefer to live alone. Happiness need not require others.”

Iskandar watches as Waver processes the words, his eyes glazed over with thought. _What are you thinking, boy?_ Hazily he recalls his and Waver’s first meeting, where the boy clumsily explained his original wish for the Grail. _“To prove others wrong”…well, that_ could _be considered a form of respect, though it would never last. Though it’s clear you got what you truly wanted in the end, no matter “how” or “why”._

Waver’s expression turns attentive again. “That does make sense…but what if the person…” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Never mind. If the person did hi— _their_ best to not purposefully harm anyone, or defile someone’s memory, then it’s fine. At least, I think so.”

Iskandar watches as Waver’s body noticeably relaxes, and the talk turns to serious questions debated humorously. If he notices that Waver’s question was more personal than usual, he doesn’t say so aloud, and neither do the others.

\---

As much as Iskandar wants to teach Waver how to dance, it becomes clear very quickly that Waver is not interested in learning. He’ll watch and clap along with the beat, openly appreciative of the dancers’ talent. And that is good.

What _isn’t_ so good is that Iskandar has seen Waver glance at the musicians in longing, yet never ask for a lesson. That hesitance must be rectified.

Iskandar takes note of the instruments Waver seems most interested in and asks around. It doesn’t take long for him to find what he needs.

Once all is ready, he strolls into Waver’s tent one evening and hands him a tambura. Waver stares at the smooth dark wood and the stark-white pick now resting in his lap. He looks up at Iskandar as if he’s never seen him before—and his expression shifts into familiar exasperation.

“You know I don’t know how to play.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not paying you for it.”

“Are you…going to teach me?”

“Yes! Unless you want someone else, in which case—”

Waver shakes his head and smiles. “I’d like to have you as a teacher.” He squints. “Hey, I don’t remember reading about you being able to play instruments.”

Iskandar rubs the back of his neck and grins. “Well, I’m a little rusty, so my tutelage may be a little unorthodox.”

Waver smiles wryly. “Good thing I’m not paying you for it.”

Iskandar snickers and claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, boy! Now, you see this pick? You can use your fingers, too, but the pick is easier to start with. Well, you hold it between your fingers, like this…”

Waver’s strumming is reluctant at first, and his melody jumbled and off-key. Once he discovers how the pick works and how to hold the tambura for optimal comfort, the tent is soon filled with the gentle, vibrant _thrum_ of his simple song. Waver closes his eyes, and Iskandar can feel the tension and hesitation slide off his friend’s heart. The melody loops and glides, like wind in a valley, and he listens for a long time without comment.

Waver stops playing, and a wave of silence falls before them. It takes Iskandar a moment to adjust; he blinks slowly and ignores the faint ringing in his ears.

“That was a good beginning,” Iskandar says, disrupting the quiet.

“I’m definitely going to need more practice.” Waver runs his fingers over the neck thoughtfully. “Usually songs with a tambura are one constant rhythm, right?”

“I haven’t heard otherwise. They’re useful for meditation that way.”

“Oh. Would Calanus know how to play?”

“You should ask him,” Iskandar says with a grin, slowly getting to his feet. “It’s getting late, we should probably rest. We’re going to be doing a lot of traveling tomorrow, so be prepared!”

“What’s the rush? Where are we going, anyway?”

“Forward, of course!” He claps Waver on the shoulder again and prepares to leave.

Before he can brush back the tent flap, Waver’s hand grabs his mantle. He looks back with confusion—is something the matter?

Waver looks up at him with uncertain eyes. “This world…does it have an end?”

“Heh. Not unless I wish it to.” The atmosphere seems heavier than before. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

Waver lets go of his mantle and brushes back the tent flap. Iskandar stands beside him, watching the boy’s green eyes take in the Hetairoi milling about, feasting, laughing, and dancing in front of _crackling_ bonfires. Their shadows flicker on the rust-colored sand, and the moon and stars above cast the unlit parts of their camp in an eerie blue light.

“I saw this world die, once,” Waver murmurs. His hands clench into fists. “I saw all these people tumble into darkness, screaming in terror…”

He wants to say something reassuring, but now’s not the time. Instead he listens, as Waver tells his tale of Iskandar’s last charge, how he faced death with laughter on his lips and his head held high. It’s the kind of death he never got in life, and to hear of it from this lone boy’s lips is both gratifying and discomfiting. _Would that_ I _could remember it, the cold night air and the feeling of chains binding me tight…and my friends dying for my sake._ It’s the latter part that chills him; that there was a moment in time when those he trusts above all else, who followed him everywhere, had to see him charge forward alone as the ground crumbled beneath them.

_Perhaps it is best I don’t remember._

When Waver finishes his tale, his voice trembling slightly, they stand in silence. Nobody else notices them, and that’s for the best. This is a moment of silence for those who are and are not dead.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He keeps his voice as non-confrontational as he can.

“…Well…it didn’t seem right, somehow. It felt like I’d give you a burden you didn’t need.”

Iskandar sighs and flicks Waver on the forehead. “Idiot.”

Waver _thuds_ to the ground, clutching his forehead. “What the hell was that for?!”

“Causing yourself unnecessary pain.” He helps Waver to his feet. “Now that you’ve told me, you should be able to rest easy.”

“…I guess so.”

Before he leaves, a thought occurs to him. “Waver?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a pretty good storyteller. Perhaps I’ll ask you to tell that tale again in front of the campfire one evening.”

“Heh. To boost your own ego?”

“Partially. It’s for your own sake, too.” He waves his hand and strides away, letting Waver sleep.

Iskandar looks back once, to see Waver still looking out at the festivities, his posture relaxed. It hasn’t been that long since he arrived, and already he’s slipped into the cultural hodge-podge like it’s a second skin. And beneath that skin is Waver Velvet, Lord El-Melloi II, student and teacher both. _You were an excellent discovery, and all by chance. Or perhaps it wasn’t chance at all._

It’s neither a sad or happy thought, but something bittersweet. He thinks of other things he and Waver can show each other; places, ideas, and people, and feels content. _If this is what came of that stolen relic, it was worth it in the end._


End file.
